


A Kind of Closure

by fractalsinthesky



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, Post-Canon, as well as the implied torture stuff, not New Dawn compliant, rating for language and grim subjects, will add relationship tags for grace/mary may and jess/tracy when I have more content, yeah we're going with trauma-induced-amnesia but I promise if I finish they'll be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21615634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: They'd won the war for Hope County but before they could celebrate, the bombs fell and Dep disappeared. Sharky and the rest of the surviving Resistance spent the next eight years trying to get things working again, when an awfully familiar face shows up out of the blue.Mostly a projection of how I think the world-state for New Dawn should have opened, while allowing some chance of recovery for the Deputy.
Relationships: Sharky Boshaw/Deputy | Judge
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

It was well into the eighth year after the bombs dropped that the call came in. None of the old crew was on that patrol, so at first all anyone was saying was that someone had been found wandering the plains close to the old apple stand, starving and half-feral. The Stray Patrol had brought in others in varying stages of mental or physical deterioration—one man in the first year had been covered in burns and rarely spoke beyond a rattling cough, and only lasted about a month before buying the proverbial farm. A kid they’d found in a bunker sweep a few miles outside the county later that year, hollow-eyed, with the bodies of his parents just outside the hatch, munching steadily on the last of the rations. There had been a woman in the third year, stumbling out of the mountain pass, running on fumes and half-delirious from an infected eye socket, courtesy of one of those big fucking wolverines that had taken to the Bliss and the radiation like Shrinky Dinks take to water. 

Took to water. No Shrinky Dinks any more. Plenty of Hulked out wolverines, though.

Anyway, there had been a lot of broken people brought in by the Stray Patrol since the world ended. It had started out of desperation, out of grief, out of necessity. Brief forays in the first weeks as individuals came out, braving the threat of radiation for a few hours in search of family, friends, familiar faces to ground themselves in the new reality. 

He’d been alone before—gone long stretches without seeing or speaking to another person when he was in the mind-flattening throes of summer depression. Or the resentful desperation of fall depression. Or the brittle immobility of winter depression. Or in spring, when the flowers were nodding themselves out of the dirt and the birds flew back to sing in the mornings and all the cute little fuzzy woodland animals were fucking and he was depressed. He’d been alone for a long time, but never like that. Never because he had to hide in a hole in the ground with his thumb up his ass, not knowing whether anyone he cared about was alive still, or if they’d been caught in the blast. Was he the only one left in Hope County? In Montana? In the fucking US of fucking A? 

He’d found Jerome—or Jerome had found him—on the third trip out and had cried like a baby. It’d been hard to hear over his own sobs, but when the Pastor wrapped him up in a hug, he could feel his back shuddering too. No shame in blubbering when your friend had the waterworks going as well. They’d been closer to Sharky’s place than his, so he’d stayed over that night, and filled him in on the plan. Fuckin’ four weeks into the apocalypse and the guy already had a plan. Fall’s End had a higher concentration of bunkers within a tight radius than most anywhere else in the county, and folks were already drifting in. Once the worst of the radiation had cleared, they’d all start to work on a settlement and clearing ground for planting before the season turned. He’d nodded along, adopting the sober, attentive expression he’d used with his parole officer back when the world had made sense, and focused more on the steady, comforting cadence of the man’s words than their content. 

Pastor Jerome’s measured confidence, even weighted by the stress and exhaustion of these past few months, was like a beacon of light in the middle of a thunderstorm. He’d found himself swallowing repeatedly and blinking a lot to keep more tears at bay, the sheer gratitude at sharing a space, sharing a future with another soul was a golden revelation. He could almost hear that classic “ahhhhhhh!” symphonic bit from old cartoons and movies, see trumpet-toting angels draw clouds apart like curtains for a beaming, toga-wearing, Ian McKellan-as-Gandalf-looking God to pop out with His arms spread wide open for a hug. 

Mary May and Grace, Jess, Casey, a few other names he recognized. 

“What about Nick an’ Kim? My-my cousin?” he’d asked, throat hoarse, when the list came to an end far too quickly. “Dep?”

“The Ryes are safe,” Jerome assured him, nodding slowly at the floor. “They’re holed up in their own bunker, well-stocked and comfortable. They don’t want to risk moving just yet—with the baby. We haven’t heard anything about your cousin, or Rook. Nothing about any of the other Deputies either.”

He was probably supposed to nod understandingly or something, but his neck and jaw were locked up stiff—all he could move was his fingers, his thumb passing over and over the calloused tips. Then Jerome’s hand was on his thigh, warm and solid, and sad eyes shone over at him.

“Work helps,” he said. “I don’t—I’m not going to give you false hope. There are a lot of questions right now. Some may never be answered. Most, in all likelihood. But the ones with answers? Those are going to take some time to figure out, and work makes it easier to handle the time.”

“I guess,” he said, and he’d cleared his throat. “I’d—I’d like to help. If you’ll have me.”

Jerome had smiled at him—not in the pitying, patronizing way folks had smiled at him a few months ago, but really, genuinely smiled at him. “It’s good to see you, Boshaw.”

And the next day he’d trekked back with him, and put his head down and got to work, keeping it down as weeks turned into months. The months stacked up and the weather started to settle out, and Hurk came sailing in out of the east like he’d just gotten back from one of his worldly adventures, except this time Sharky was too busy tackling the big guy for hugs to press him for stories. 

Rebuilding Seed Ranch into a place worth living in was a lot of work. Getting it up and running, working through the kinks involved in stuffing a bunch of dysfunctional personalities into a monument to a dead sadist’s ego. Plus the gritty and often painful job of fending off attack by the fast-recovering ecosystem. Months into years, and that thread of hope Jerome had given him had been incorporated into some kind of weird, sloppy cross-stitch of an actual life. But still no word on Dep. As the Stray Patrol coalesced into an actual functional taskforce, he’d volunteered for extra shifts and kept an ear out on the radio for updates, but as the years piled on with not even a whisper, he’d begun to think that the question of his friend the Deputy would be the kind without an answer.

When the call came back about a person reeling around the shattered trees up north, unresponsive to hails from the search party, dirty and scarred and wearing clothes that hung slack from their limbs like sails on a ship that’d been becalmed for years, he’d expected another dying stranger. Someone else who’d wandered in from outside the county in a last spurt of energy before succumbing to the wildlife or the terrain or disease or marauding bandits. Someone they’d take in, keep away from the weapons and under watch for a while until the civility came back and that dead, desperate blankness left their eyes and they remembered their own name. 

It had definitely sounded that way as the report progressed—no weapons, visible injuries to the face and hands, unwilling or unable to speak but reflexively violent when someone had attempted to approach them. Too weak to do damage, and after getting permission from Kim and Jerome, they were easily overpowered and bound for safe transport. The team provided wary updates all the way back to Prosperity—this person still wasn’t talking, screaming, anything, and had stopped fighting as soon as their hands were tied. They just shut down, folding in on themselves and staring down at the floor of the van. 

He’d felt uneasy, listening in and watching as the euphemistically titled “transition suite” was prepared for a new arrival. Plenty of folks who’d found their way into Hope County’s sanctuary had brought rumors of other groups, to the west and to the south, that had decided to take lawlessness in a different, distinctly dystopic direction. Shit that just broke you in the head, beyond what Doc Lindsey could fix with their limited supplies and equipment. Whatever hell this poor fuck had escaped, at least they could spend a while in relative comfort and dignity here in a one-room cabin with no windows or sharp edges and a door that locked from the outside, getting three hots and a cot and kept under constant observation until they either croaked or proved themselves not to be a danger to the community.

But when the battered convoy returned, the newest stray kept themselves planted in their seat, chest heaving raggedly as their escort’s gentle coaxing grew more impatient. A loose, cautious circle closed around, with weapons on standby just in case. Sharky kept his shotgun slung over his back. They’d lost people before by not being careful. This was just one person, though, and in pretty precarious condition from the sound of it. The patrol lead, Mike, tried to reach in and guide them out, but fell back with a curse, turning to the others with a scowl.

“Tried to bite me,” he said, checking his hand to be sure the skin hadn’t been broken. “Anybody got a canteen? Food, maybe? Words ain’t doin’ it.”

Offerings of food and water didn’t do much either—Mike relayed that they glanced at it, but made no move to take anything. In the end, he stood back, letting them have space to get out by themselves. Still no joy. From what Sharky could see, they were hunched against the opposite side, bound wrists hanging passively off their knees. He squinted. 

“Somethin’s wrong with their hands,” he said. 

Mike looked back over his shoulder. “Both thumbs are dislocated. Maybe broken. Bruised to hell, too.”

“Fuck,” sighed Nick, scratching the back of his head. “Can somebody tell Chuck? He’ll need to look ‘em over, when they’re ready.”

“He’s out with the resource team, hon,” said Kim at his side, staring pensively into the van. “Maybe English didn’t work, but did you try Spanish? What about German? Think there used to be a Mennonite population to the north—”

“A little. And Quinn tried Russian, French,” Mike shrugged, taking a few more steps back. “Nothing.”

“Maybe they’re deaf?” suggested Grace, gesturing around the circle. “Anybody know ASL?”

“I don’t think they’re deaf,” said Candice, one of the other members of today’s Stray Patrol. “They have, um, automatic reactions to noise. They just don’t…deliberately acknowledge it.”

“Hey Father, uh—maybe do some of that ‘approachable man of the cloth’ type thing you do, huh?” prompted Hurk. “Might be they just need soothin’.”

Jerome took a breath and walked over, staying level with Mike so the stranger wouldn’t feel too crowded. 

“Hello, there,” he said softly, spreading his hands so they could see he was unarmed. “I’m so sorry we’re meeting like this, my friend. I know you’re scared and tired and hungry, and it may have felt like we were attacking you, but please let me assure you that we want nothing more than to help you. We have food and water here. We have beds aplenty. We have the numbers and the resources to keep the animals out and to bring a little bit of humanity back to this world. Let us give you a home. We can tend to your wounds, give you new clothes and a meal, at the very least. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but we cannot turn away a soul in need. Please come out. You are welcome among our family.”

They shuddered, head turning, and launched themselves out of the van, knocking Jerome to the side as they fell. Sharky had time to notice that their head was roughly shaved, black fuzz coming in unevenly over their skull, and that the feet churning haphazardly in the dust were bare before the stained green of their threadbare jacket clicked horribly into place and he stopped thinking. He didn’t move—couldn’t move as they careened around the perimeter of people looking for a gap, staring slack-jawed while most of the others scrambled and yelled. They passed him with hardly a glance, stumbling over the frayed cuffs of their jeans and almost falling, harsh, panicked panting wracking their frame.

“Fuck,” he said, something close to shame and grief swallowing him. “Fuck. Dep…is that you?”

They wheeled back, locking eyes for one brief awful minute in which he tried desperately to find the slightest hint of recognition and failed, before they charged him, leading with one pitifully bony shoulder. He’d lost some weight since the bombs fell, but he was far from starving and work around Prosperity had kept him in pretty good shape, so when the full force of their rush hit him, he didn’t budge. They lost their footing as they bounced back, and he grabbed for them on instinct, but the second he touched them, they jerked away, writhing like a hooked fish, blank panic stark on their face.

“Oh God, oh fuck, Jesus—I’m sorry,” he babbled, dropping them into the dirt, automatically reaching down to pick them up before stopping himself. They’d frozen where they fell, breathing heavily, bound hands drawn close to their chest. “Shit, please—Dep? Dep? C’mon, man—it’s me.”

They stared fixedly at the clump of grass in front of their nose, but were curling their legs up slowly, drawing into fetal position. His eyes were burning. He knew other people were coming over, heard a few horrified gasps of recognition and flinched, because that was bad—that meant it was real—but he couldn’t look away from the shell of his friend curled up in the dust like a dying snake. Thumbs were definitely dislocated—puffed up all the way down to the wrists, with purple bruises mottling at the joints and around their forearms. Pale scars around the wrists, too, circling all the way around. Their eyes were bloodshot and sunk in dark pits and the shape of their nose wasn’t what he remembered. Their skin was grimy, and what didn’t look to be covered in dirt, dust, or some other less identifiable substance had a sheen of oil.

Then the smell hit him. Blood, sweat, shit, piss, BO—the fuckin’ works. He gagged, the back of his throat watery. 

“Jesus, they reek,” someone said.

“I know—we’re gonna have to scrub the hell out of the van,” someone else muttered.

“Shut up,” he said, starting to shake, then glaring into the crowd around them. “Shut up, shut up! Shut up! You don’t—you don’t talk about them like that! You don’t fucking—”

“Sharky.” Grace had pushed her way into the circle, the level steel in her voice dispelling the towering rage that had seized him and quieting the confused chatter from the folks gathered around who had no idea who Deputy Rook was. Or had been. “That’s not helping.”

“We gotta get ‘em inside,” said Nick, mouth thin beneath his beard. “Not gonna do much good out here.”

“I’ll go see what Lindsey has in stock,” said Kim, hand lingering on Nick’s arm. She started to say something else, but gave a short, unhappy sigh instead. She thinned the crowd as she left, assigning tasks to some and just reminding others that they had more important things to do.

Jerome joined the inner circle, brushing dust from his pants and staring down at the person who used to be Deputy Rook. His fists were clenched and his brow was furrowed, a muscle pulsing in his jaw.

“It takes time,” he said at length, voice soft and grim. “To do this to somebody.”

“Uh, hey ya’ll?” Hurk piped up from the back, and the expression Sharky caught before his cousin turned away looked queasy. “I—I’m sorry, but I can’t, uh…I gotta dip. I just can’t, guys. Ya’ll got me one hundred and ten percent down the road, but this is decidedly not in my wheelhouse, y’know? Not my forte. I can’t—I’m peacin’ out, ‘kay?”

“Anybody else?” asked Grace, after he’d scrambled off. She waited a moment, then nodded when no one spoke up. “We’re going to have to move them. They’re probably going to fight.”

She was facing Sharky more than anyone else, and he bristled at the pointedness of her gaze, clouded as it was. “It’s going to feel bad, but it has to be done, and we can’t let them hurt themselves or us by being overly gentle, got it?”

He muttered a sullen ‘yes’ as others nodded.

“Alright. Sharky? If you could get their legs. Nick, Father—support the body and keep their arms pinned. I’ll hold their head and shoulders. Once we’ve got them up, we move them into the recovery cabin—don’t rush, focus on keeping them as level as possible. We good?”

Mumbled ‘yes’s from the circle, and they got into position. Guilt and dread edged in around his heart as Grace counted down from three. They were definitely listening, because they tensed up on ‘two’ and tried to fight on ‘one’, rising to their knees and swinging their elbows out with enough desperate strength to clip Nick across the cheek and draw a pained curse out of him, but when four sets of hands locked down on them, they weren’t able to do much more than spasm. 

They tried to kick, but he swept their legs in flush with his ribs, anchoring his other arm under their knees so their jackknifing evened out. It hurt to swallow, and he sniffed hard, focusing on Grace’s bowed head, the streaks of gray filtering through her hair and the steadily approaching threshold of the cabin. Between the four of them, Rook weighed nothing at all.

The “transition suite” had a packed earth floor. A decent mattress brought up from one of the local bunkers, plus a pillow and a thick if somewhat scratchy blanket. Salvaged glass set high in the roof to let light in. A feed trough, long-emptied and scoured clean enough for use as a bathtub. The walls inside had been papered with newspaper clippings and pages torn from books—art, poetry, shitty knock-knock jokes, acerbic movie reviews, ads for canned chili and home appliances and fucking toilet paper—everything from the poignant to the banal, undeniably and inherently human.

There’d been some discussion early on, with more kids showing up, about how pre-bomb society should be represented. It was generally agreed that housing mausoleums to the past would be pointless, but in use as grounding for people lost in a fog of trauma and possible psychosis, it seemed to help. At very least, it had gotten others to start talking again. He glanced at the crowded walls as they lowered Rook onto the mattress and sent a fervent prayer up to the big man or Hurk’s Monkey King or whoever the hell might be listening that it would help them too.

Rook stilled the instant they were released, frozen on their side and staring through Nick’s shins.

“We’ll have to help for Lindsey’s examination, when he gets back,” said Grace, wiping her hands on her pants, pausing uncertainly and then wiping again, frowning vaguely. “Uh, we should—we should get them some food. Water. At least to have available. And—and clean clothes. I…”

She trailed off, shaking her head and turning away. Nick touched her elbow and she waved him off, digging the toe of one boot into the dirt.

“I’ll get some people on it,” assured Jerome, nodding. “I think Casey actually just made a batch of bread this morning—should be plenty left.”

“Fish,” blurted Sharky, roughly wiping at his eyes with his jacket sleeves. “They, uh, like fish. Used to, anyways.”

“I’ll bring some fish.”

Nick shifted his weight, looking to the door. “Who’s takin’ first shift? I mean, I—I get that we all need to, uh, process this. But…I don’t think bein’ surrounded is helpin’ ‘em.”

“I got it,” he said quickly, planting his feet and nodding with a certainty he didn’t feel. “I’ll take first.”

The others nodded and made their way to the door. Grace hung onto his shoulder on the way out, squeezing comfortingly. Nick stayed back, shooting a look to Rook’s still form before leaning in to him.

“Y’sure, Shark Attack?” he asked softly, brows raised. “I’m not—I’m not doubtin’ you or nothin’, first off. But you know they can’t be trusted right now. Right? They were Rook. They were our friend. But from the looks of it, they ain’t been Rook for a while.”

“I know,” he said, ears burning. “I fuckin’ know, Nick. I ain’t gonna do anything stupid, if that’s what you wanna hear.”

Nick heaved his shoulders reluctantly. “I know, man, it’s just…remember in those last few months? Goin’ out with them an’ takin’ shit back?”

He nodded, looking away. 

“You remember how fuckin’ Splinter Cell they was back then? Sneakin’ around a camp and takin’ out five, six guys without anyone noticing? Sure they don’t exactly look in any kind of shape to take anybody out right now, but…I gotta think about my little girl, y’know?”

Sharky glared at the other man. “Don’t fault you for thinkin’ about little Carmina, but I gotta tell you, Nick, it’ll uh, be a real fuckin’ miracle if they so much as stand up in the next hour. Hell, I-I wouldn’t bet on them rolling over even for a long goddamn while. But my ass is gonna stay parked in front of the door, and they ain’t comin’ through me, okay, I promise you.”

Nick ducked his head, nodding at the floor. “Thanks. I’ll spell you for when Lindsey gets back.”

“Yeah, alright.” His shoulders sagged in relief. 

Still hadn’t quite sunk in that the emaciated, shell-shocked husk of a person over there was the eight years distanced ‘after’ picture to the smart-assed, muscle-corded, fearless ’before’ that he’d met in his parents’ trailer park. The image that day of their wild grin, dark eyes glinting in the midday sun, bloodied bat leaned casually up over their shoulder, was impossible to reconcile with what he was seeing now. Being part of the group that would have to restrain them while the doc reset their thumbs and attended to who knew whatever else needed attending under those layers of filth would be too much.

Nick passed his hand over his mouth and blew out his cheeks. “Good luck, bud.”

He closed the door behind him and Sharky heard the lock thunk into place. The gloom and the silence fell sudden and hard all around, and he swallowed, looking up at the makeshift sunlight in the ceiling. The beam that drifted down through the middle of the room was watery—late afternoon and the sun would already be on the other side of the pitched roof. They’d need a lantern or something in a few hours. He could hear his own heart pounding, and the almost imperceptible clicks of each blink of his eyelids. Could hear their breathing, shallow and unsteady, but still bizarrely familiar. Running all over Hope County back then had meant setting up camp in all kinds of places, and after a while the soft, regular sounds of their breathing when they bunked down for the night had become so comforting that he hadn’t been able to sleep without it. 

“Hey Dep,” he said hesitantly, backing up to the door and sliding down until his butt hit dirt. Their breathing quieted, and they didn’t move to look at him, but he guessed they were listening. “Guess this is pretty weird, huh? I’m sorry. I guess—I mean, looks like you don’t really remember us just yet. ‘Sokay, though. We remember you. We’re gonna take care of ya, Dep. You’re safe here.”

He stopped to listen, mouth twisting in frustration. He hadn’t done much sitting in with the other strays that had been brought back. Had plenty of other things to do, and there were other folks around Prosperity much better suited to drawing broken people out of their shells. But fuck, this was Dep. They’d been the first person in ages to call him a friend without checking who was within hearing range. They’d caused a lot of damage together, shared too many jokes and stupid stories to count, even shared body heat up north when winter was starting to set in. Even if it had only been for a few months, their trust and affection had changed his life—cosmically speaking, it was only fair that he return the favor. He just wished he knew the right combination of words to break through to them. 

“I missed you,” he said simply, and the words hung naked and inadequate in the silence between them. He felt a tug of impatience in his chest. “We uh, we all did, of course. It’s just—I don’t have anyone who’ll talk about fuckin’ disco with me anymore, y’know? Not that that means much of anything now—my, uh…most of my collection was wiped out when the bombs fell. Saved a few that were down there in my bunker, but…sometimes I’ll get a song stuck in my head that I dunno if I’ll ever hear out loud again. It’s fuckin’ weird. Like a—like a ghost singin’ to me. Do you ever get that?”

He waited, just in case, but they didn’t respond.

“Guess most of ‘em were ghosts anyway by that point, right? Technically speakin’?” He tipped his head back, looking up at the skylight. “Man, Dep, I dunno how long you’ve been aboveground, but have you seen the night sky these days? Fuckin’ gorgeous. Doc Lindsey says it’s uh, lack of light pollution plus better air quality in general, but I bet there’s also just a fuckton more stars that got born. Well not—not ‘born’, I know that ain’t the right word for it, but…formed? Whatever. Point is, it’s beautiful as shit when they’re out. You should see ‘em tonight if the weather stays clear.”

When he listened, their breathing had steadied. Still not as deep as it should be, but at least it was calmer. Something soft stirred in his chest. 

“I’m not…lonely anymore,” he offered. “And that’s mostly ‘cause of you lettin’ me tag along way back when. I wanted to thank you for that. And, uh, I know you, um…probably aren’t getting any of this right now, and that’s okay—I’ll tell you again later. When you’re better. ‘Kay? ‘Cause you’re gonna get better. I’m not—I’m not pushin’ you, though. I know it’ll probably take some time. That’s okay too. I’m still here for ya. As long as it takes, dude.”

He heard them shift, and his heart shot up into his throat. They stared over at him from the mattress, propped up on one elbow, face blank with guarded stillness. He sat up, pulse pounding, and waited eagerly. But the dim shine of their eyes was suspicious, and their cracked lips stayed shut, so he slumped back against the door, trying not to be too disappointed.

“Ride or die, right buddy?” he said hopefully, scanning for a sign of the old Dep.

They started trembling, and for an instant he allowed himself to believe it was an emotional breakthrough, but then they fell back on the bed with a thump, breathing hard from the strain of suspending themselves for that long. 

He slumped back, sighing. “Right.”

Someone thumped on the other side of the door and he scrambled to his feet.

“Yeah, you’re good!”

The bar was drawn back and Mary May stepped in, arms loaded with clothes, a wooden tray with a small portion of fish, a heel of brown bread, and an aluminum thermos balanced on top. Blue eyes darted, bagged and sad, but alert.

“Jerome told me—are, are we sure?”

“Lemme help,” he said, picking the tray off her load as the door swung closed again, stepping back so she could see for herself.

“Jesus,” she breathed, edging closer and putting the clean clothes down next to the mattress, movements slow and nonthreatening. Rook watched her, shoulders tensed. “God, it really is them.”

“Yeah.” He waited for her to back off a bit before coming in with the tray, kneeling at the level of their head and setting it down. He frowned at the thermos, then unscrewed the top for them. It’d be a real bitch trying to manage that with two dislocated thumbs. He saw them watching, and gave the thermos a wiggle so the water sloshed audibly. Their mouth twitched.

He decided not to push it, getting up and moving back alongside Mary May, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. 

“Jesus,” she repeated, tone dark and cracked. “How the fuck are they alive?”

“You’re askin’ me?” he snorted, shaking his head. “Hell if I know, ‘miga. They didn’t get like this on their own, though.”

Rook eyed them with apprehension, sitting up slowly and reaching for the thermos. Whether they were looking for permission or just making sure Sharky and Mary May weren’t coming back for the stuff they’d left, evidently they’d decided it was okay to drink. They cupped the thermos in both hands and drank greedily, water spilling at the sides of their mouth and cutting tracks in the grime over their throat.

She nodded, lips thinning. “Last I saw ‘em, they were driving off with the sheriff and the other deputies, with Joseph fucking Seed in the back. Doesn’t take a genius to connect those dots.”

“Yeah, but—it’s been eight years,” he said, stomach flipping greasily at the unbidden images that were springing to mind. Watching Rook sucking the last trickles of water from the upended thermos was painful too, but at least it promised that their health would improve. Not useless fantasies of their suffering. “The guy’s fucked in the head, sure, but…I mean, I feel like he’d have just uh, killed them, y’know?”

“Mm,” Mary May shook her head. “Then he couldn’t play the shepherd to his twisted little flock. Couldn’t pretend to be a voice of mercy, preachin’ forgiveness. We should send a party out east. New Eden better have some fucking answers.”

Rook flinched, dropping the heel of bread they’d started to chew on and glaring daggers over at Mary May.

“Uh, maybe bring it up at the next meeting,” he said, crouching uncertainly, trying to look like less of a threat. “I mean, definitely do that. But uh, I dunno how much Dep is actually registering right now, and I don’t think we should get pissed around them, you know? Tonally and shit. And, uh, I think if we continue on this particular topic, you an’ me are both gonna get pretty pissed.”

“Yeah, probably.” She cleared her throat and took a few steps back, showing her empty hands to Rook. “Remember me, hon? You saved my ass more than a few times way back when. Helped take back what was mine. I’m still grateful for that.”

Sharky ducked his head and toed at the floor in the following silence, letting her process the disappointment in her own time. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her shoulders sag.

“I guess it was pretty stupid to hope—” she started bitterly, then shook her head and folded her arms. “They’re back. Whatever shit they went through, they’re here and they’re safe. That’s what’s important.”

She turned to Sharky, and he noticed that her fingers were digging hard into her upper arms. “Jerome asked me to tell you we’re having a town meeting tonight. About them. Let all the new folks know why we’re all so…rattled. Hash out a more detailed game plan.”

He grimaced. The normal weekly town meetings were so goddamn boring and lasted about three times as long as they ever needed. A meeting about Rook was bound to be frustrating on more levels than he liked to think about. People asking stupid questions that would like as not unearth some of the memories he was trying to keep back—the good ones, the ones where they were strong and smiling and kind to him. It’d hurt too much right now.

“I’m uh…I’ll get the short version from Hurk after. If that’s cool.”

“It’s cool.” She flashed him a thin but understanding smile. “I gotta go. We’re posting somebody outside too—just holler if you need anything.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said, nodding over towards the tray, the empty thermos abandoned on its side as Rook took up the bread again. “More water for the next shift’d be good, I guess. And, uh, lantern maybe? For when it gets dark?”

“I’ll pass it along.” She gave Rook a last look, and left. The lock slammed to again.

He took a deep breath and settled back against the door, listening to the only slightly nauseating sounds of Rook chewing with their mouth open, breathing harsh.

“Y’don’t gotta rush, bro,” he advised them, wincing as they choked. “We got plenty here—you can pace yourself.”

They slowed, but only to pick the crumbs off their front and lap, sucking at their palms and fingers. He grimaced at the thought of how dirty their hands must be, hoping they wouldn’t get sick on top of everything else. They’d chewed out most of the softer interior, but seemed to be having trouble with the crust, tearing it into smaller pieces and holding them in their mouth for a while before working on them. He saw their gaze flicking to the fish, their fingers twitching uncertainly before snatching up the steak. The soft flesh broke in their hand and they scooped pale flakes up with the strips of crust, stuffing it all in their mouth and chewing with caution, breathing hard through their nose, their brow wrinkled with pained reverence.

“Pretty good, huh?” he ventured, voice breaking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “There’s more—as much as you want. Not like, as much variety as we had before, of course, but I think whatever they were doin’ to the soil was…actually pretty good on the agricultural front. Shit is growin’ real well, and it doesn’t—uh, at least to me it doesn’t taste too weird.”

They searched their front and lap for dropped crumbs, then checked the tray, breathing hard. When they didn’t find anything, they sort of slumped back, injured hands empty in their crossed legs. He couldn’t help but focus on the scarring, the dark bruising that mottled their swollen wrists. Even in the poor light, it was obvious, and now that they were still and he was over the initial shock of seeing them, he was noticing more wounds—a knobbly crookedness to their fingers from old healed-over breaks, a raised puckering at the hollow of their jaw, thin lines scratching up into visibility from below the neck of their shirt. These scars were deliberate, with a regularity that looked like lettering, but he couldn’t make out what they spelled.

He shifted on the floor, swallowing the hot anger that had risen in his throat at the thought of them, trapped and at the mercy of a madman for years, terrified enough to remain still while Seed cut whatever patronizing reminder or hypocritical recrimination he pleased into their skin. They’d been lucky to escape John with just the plain black ‘wrath’ over the collarbone, but apparently that hadn’t been enough for his older brother.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he said, words bubbling up from his chest, thick and sour. “I swear, Dep, I’ll fucking kill him. I’m gonna march right up to New Eden—”

They recoiled sharply, glaring at him, cracked lips drawn back from their teeth and legs gathered beneath them, tensed as if to launch themselves at him.

He blinked, raising his hands slowly. “Sorry, dude. It’s not—I’m not mad at you. You’re safe, you can just chill, okay?”

A flash of insight struck him.

“Oh! It’s New—uh, you don’t like when we say the-the name of that place, huh?” He waited for a minute, but they didn’t respond in any recognizable way. He screwed up his mouth, making a concentrated effort despite the disappointment and irritation to not frown. If they didn’t feel safe, him looking angry wasn’t gonna help them relax. God, this was exhausting. He hadn’t had to police his own reactions in…a long time, and even then he hadn’t been very good at it. 

They eased themself back down to a seated position, but kept watching him, distrust plain on their face.

“Okay. We’ll go with that,” he said, as soothingly as possible. “No problem. You didn’t seem to mind me talkin’ before, so…’less it stresses you out, I’m gonna keep doin’ that. Makes all this shit a lot easier. Well like, not really easier—it still…it still really fuckin’ hurts to see you like this, shorty. But uh, it’s easier for me to be here and chattin’ than here and quiet, y’know?”

Their chest heaved, neck flexing oddly, and he was just about ready to jump over there and perform the Heimlich when their eyes slid reluctantly shut and their mouth opened wide in a huge yawn that could not be stifled. He grinned and was going to say something dumb about this being like the good old days, him talking them to sleep in a stranger’s cabin after a day of hard fighting, but the scant light showed just enough of their mouth to make him freeze.

The door shook against his back again, three heavy knocks and Nick’s voice overloud, announcing the Doc was ready. He swallowed, scrabbling to his feet and stepping back from the entryway, wiping his palms on his jeans again and again, unable to tear his eyes off of Rook, who was curled defensively on their side and watching the door.

“Hey man, why don’t you take a break?” said Nick with forced cheer as he entered, a high-powered battery lamp swinging from one hand. Dr. Lindsey, Kim, Jerome, and Quinn from the Patrol team filed in too. Kim was holding a syringe, the chamber filled with clear liquid.

Sharky nodded, but couldn’t get his legs moving. “Uh. Whatcha got there, Kim?”

“Sedative,” said Lindsey, before she could answer. He looked apologetic. “We don’t have much left, but…we’ll need it, if we hope to make a difference here.”

“Cool. Um. Their fucking tongue’s gone.”

Nick grimaced and Kim’s face drained. Jerome looked down at the ground, shaking his head once, slightly, but didn’t seem surprised. Quinn looked disgusted.

“Uh, Charlemagne?” Dr. Lindsey was rolling up his sleeves carefully, sidling closer to Rook and motioning Kim to follow. “Thank you for keeping them company. We have to get started now, so, uh…you’re welcome to stay, but we’ll need the door closed.”

He hesitated for a second, but the thought of further horrors waiting to be uncovered made him lose his nerve, and he practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get out. Guilt pricked hot at his neck and behind his ears as he shut the door behind him, latching the guard bar and gulping at air that didn’t smell like blood and filth and neglect. The young man—a fucking kid, really, couldn’t be more than twenty-five—posted at the entrance politely watched the clouds crawling across the sky while he got himself together.

“Shit,” he said to his boots, catching muffled suggestions of urgent speech from within the cabin. Rook must be fighting. At least they hadn’t lost that. In some weird way when he thought about it, it was better to see them suspicious and violently defiant than compliant. Meant old Joe couldn’t fully break ‘em. That there was still something left of them, despite that psycho fuck’s efforts.

Weird. It was so fucking weird. This whole time, he’d been waiting for them to come back. Thought they’d just sorta pick up where they left off—maybe they’d like, cruise back on in riding like a big, Mad Max-lookin’ monster truck and holler at him to get in because they had more adventures to go on and shit. Or like, maybe he’d find ‘em on a Stray Patrol and they just hit their head real hard gettin’ into a bunker when it all went to hell and got like, amnesia so he’d have to give ‘em the ‘Muppets Take Manhattan’ treatment and then they’d just keep bein’ best friends. Not this.

He blew out his cheeks and nodded to himself, setting out decisively for his cabin. Nothing he could do about what had happened. But if they were still in there, he was gonna bring them back. And then they’d celebrate by making Joseph Seed pay for what he’d done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey who wants more sad headcanons? also in my Prosperity the wlw are alive and happy

When Hurk came back to the small cabin they shared and made straight for their moonshine crate, Sharky knew the news wouldn’t be good. Whatever the Bliss and the radiation had done to corn had really fucked it all up for distillery purposes, and this shit hit like a truck. In the grand scheme of things, of course, there was worse to complain about, but still…when you almost needed something else to dull the pain from the very stuff that was supposed to be doing the job in the first place, things were pretty dire. Hence the sense of dread when Hurk didn’t even hesitate to throw back the cover and pull out the still-very-full-despite-them-having-made-the-fucking-thing-over-a-month-ago jug of apocalypse hooch.

“So. What’re they tellin’ everybody, cuz?” he asked as Hurk brought over their drinking mugs and poured. 

His leg was jigging like crazy—had been ever since he gave up on napping out the wait to the end of the meeting, and he ground his knuckles into his thigh to stop it. Didn’t look at his cousin’s face when he sighed because it would make the answer to the question he hadn’t even wanted to ask even worse. He didn’t have to look, at least, but the asking felt necessary. Was necessary. Even if there were some blanks he didn’t want filled in, he owed it to the person who used to be his friend to shoulder the burden of that knowledge. Did that even make sense? Or was it some weird, antiquated fragment of chivalry floating up from some medieval romantic bullshit he’d read as a kid?

“Real basic for now,” said Hurk at length, taking a drink and grimacing. “Jee-sus this sucks, man. We could strip paint with this shit. It’s like…whose knob do I gotta slob on to bring margaritas back, right? Them fruity frozen ones, with salt ‘round the rim? Those were so good, dude. You remember them?”

He nodded, but didn’t have the energy to riff like usual. Hurk waited a moment, but when Sharky didn’t shoot back, he sighed again, crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. He kept fidgeting with his mug, spinning it this way and that between his palms, gaze fixed on its contents as he spoke. 

“Alright ‘migo. Doc Lindsey basically confirmed what we’d guessed—thumbs dislocated, seems like they’ve had some other nasty breaks over the past few years. Ain’t been eating well, but they have been gettin’ food. Scars and shit ‘round their wrists and ankles, some old and healed up, some fresh as a week or so. So like…definitely held against their will, an’ probably managed to escape real recently. Still ain’t said a peep an’ probably won’t be able to—uh,” he eyed Shark cautiously. “Ever, he’s thinkin’. Not a whole lot of details there, but like…otherwise they seem responsive, so once they’ve had a bit to adjust, they shouldn’t have a problem communicating in other ways. Writin’ or sign or whatever.”

“Don’t think they knew sign language,” he said, voice sounding louder than it should in their small room. “At least…fuck, I don’t know.”

“Then Ada’ll come in and teach ‘em, right?” Hurk smiled encouragingly, slapping his knee. “She taught those kids that came in last fall, didn’t she? When the brother went deaf?”

“I guess.” He looked down at his own hands, steady around the mug of moonshine. “Think she’d teach me, Hurky? Maybe some…like, real simple stuff? I mean, I was failing French 1 when my folks…”

“Hell yeah. That’s a real smart lady, there. You’ll be like, fluent in Hand in no time, dude!” There was no arguing with Hurk’s cheerful insistence, and he felt the knots around his heart loosen a bit. 

“Okay, then. Guess we’ll figure it out.” He took a gulp and hissed as it tore its way down his throat. “Christ, that’s…not good.”

“I know, I know, broski,” Hurk followed suit and shook his head in revulsion at the burn. “Fuck, man, it’s like, whose shaft do I gotta crank for a goddamn piña colada, y’know? Wedge of fresh pineapple, even? I’d do some nasty shit to get a little island time goin’ ‘round here, I don’t even care who knows it.”

He managed a smile, but still wasn’t up to riffing. “Uh…they talk about Joe much?”

Hurk tilted his head. “Eh, barely. Again, keepin’ pretty skimpy on the juicy deets. Just that, y’know, they were a key figure fightin’ against him an’ his group way back when, and he was with ‘em last anyone saw. Kim asked that no one mention anything about them to any New Edeners we bump into— least not ’til we know for sure re: Papa Joe’s involvement _vis a vis_ their current condition.”

“Man, seems pretty fucking clear to me. Fuckin’ New Eden. Knew we shouldn’t’ve shook hands with those burlap-wearin’ fucks,” Sharky muttered into his mug as he took another nose-hair-burning swig.

“Look, I’m not advocating we invite ‘em all over for a round of minigolf or anything, but they’ve been pretty good ‘bout stayin’ on their side of the room since they popped up outta their bunkers.” Hurk had that doubtful wheedle in his voice that always seemed to creep in when he was trying to adopt a reasonable perspective. “I mean…I dunno about the big greasy cheese himself, but I got a feelin’ they—as a group, I mean—didn’t have much to do with it. Most of the ones I’ve met have seemed pretty chill. Kinda up their own butts, but otherwise…y’know.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. This new iteration of the cult seemed generally happy keeping to themselves, and whenever any of Prosperity’s hunting or salvage parties found themselves on the wrong side of one of Mother Nature’s particularly OP abominations, there were usually a few of New Eden’s archers melting out of the shadows to assist. No effort to strike up trade of any kind, but when Prosperity’s crops had failed last year, they’d left a few bundles of their own harvest outside the gates. Whatever the legacy of the Project of Eden’s Gate, New Edeners had proven themselves more likely to save lives than ruin them. 

“You think they even know about Rook, then?” he asked, brows knitting together. “What their venerated dickbag Prophet was doin’ to a defenseless prisoner for years? How the fuck would they rationalize that?”

“Well Sharky,” scowled Hurk, putting a hand sarcastically to his chest. “As Prosperity’s resident expert-ass professor on New Eden and the teenie-weeniest nuances of all its fuckin’ ideology an’ practices—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he relented, raising the mug in surrender and draining it. “Fuck. Ugh. Who do I, uh, London Bridge for to get a freakin’ whiskey sour?”

Hurk laughed, pouring more into his own mug. “There you go, buckaroo. Want another?”

He made a face at the offered jug. “Not tryin’ to party, bud, but I appreciate it. Shit’s rancid.”

Hurk’s smile dimmed, and the threads of gray that had started filtering through his hair and beard in the past few years seemed thicker in the lantern light. “‘M not tryin’ to party neither, cuz. Just don’t wanna dream tonight, you feel?”

Sharky opened his mouth but the words weren’t there, so he just nodded in resignation and held his mug out for Hurk to fill. 

“Down the hatch, dude.”

They clinked their mugs and slammed it back, then exchanged disgusted expressions.

“We really gotta balance that shit out, man,” he gasped through the fire in his throat. “Find some honey or somethin’.”

Hurk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure thing, cuz. You see any post-apocalyptic bees flyin’ around anywhere, you just let me know.”

He grimaced. After eight years he thought he’d pretty much adjusted to the post-nuke world, but every now and then little things would slip his mind. Like the fact that the bees were gone, and Hope County’s principle pollinators were now juiced-up yellow jackets, and those stingy assholes didn’t even make honey. Fuck, eight years with no bees. He felt old, and weirdly small.

Nope. Introspection would be a bad move right now. Better tamp that shit down.

Hurk poured another gut-withering swig that he downed without enthusiasm. When it was empty again, Sharky set his mug on their little table and got into his bed, pulling his blanket up and plopping a pillow over his head. “Get the light whenever you feel like it, yeah?”

“Pretty bushed, man. Think I’m turnin’ in now, anyways, so don’t be dramatic.” 

“Fine.” He pulled the extra pillow off, hugging it to his chest instead and blinking slowly at the shadows on the wall while his cousin shuffled around the room. The moonshine was heating his gut comfortably, and his eyelids were heavy. Didn’t used to get tired this early, but it had been one hell of a day.

He finally heard the flump of Hurky throwing himself on the other bed, then his slight fumbling for the lantern before the cabin was flooded in darkness. Then there were just the sounds of their breathing and the distant hush of the wind. 

He closed his eyes.

Thankfully, that moonshine was high-enough-proof to knock him right the fuck out, and when morning came, shoving golden fingers through the gaps in the cabin walls and beneath the door, he hadn’t had any nightmares or dreams at all that he could remember. No hangover to speak of either, which was a blessing in and of itself since he no longer had the luxury of sleeping in ’til late afternoon when the head pounding wore off. 

The camp wouldn’t really kick into gear until the sun was well up, but watch changed at dawn, and a hunting party would usually set out before the fog had cleared from the river. More importantly, Casey and his team of cooks got up just before dawn, prepping dinner for the night watch and breakfast for everybody else smack dab in the middle of the compound. 

Could be more considerate about it, though, Sharky thought, pulling his spare pillow over his head to muffle the clanks and chatter echoing from outside. Not like porridge and assorted freaky mutant fruits was super exciting, after all.

“Oh wise Monkey King whose art hangs in heaven,” droned Hurk from his praying corner. “Thank you for another beautiful day on your kickass planet with my cousin and our buddies. I—I know I say it all the time, but it was real cool of you to keep us safe from nuclear annihilation and whatnot. An’ thanks for sendin’ the Deputy back to us. With your grace, I’m sure we’ll have ‘em back in partyin’ shape in no time.”

“Can’t you just, like, do that in your head, cuz?” Sharky grumbled, giving up on squeezing a few extra hours of sleep out of his pillow. 

“Fuck no, Sharky,” Hurk said indignantly. “Readin’ minds is against the bro code, and he may be all-powerful and all-knowing as shit, but the Monkey King’s too cool of a dude to listen in on the innermost workin’s of my brains. You should know that, but I’mma give you a pass on account of it bein’ the glorious start of a new day, rife with opportunities for being your best fuckin’ self, so you’re welcome.”

“Jesus, you’re a real treat in the morning, dude.” He scrubbed at the pits of his eyes until he felt awake enough to get up and stretch. 

“I’m choosing to interpret that as a compliment, so thank you, Charlemagne, thank you very much.” Hurk tried to look at him loftily, but the effect was ruined as he adjusted his junk.

“Whatever, dude, talk to your Monkey King. I ain’t stickin’ around anyway.” He pulled his boots on and fished his jacket out of the pile of dirty clothes accumulating at the foot of his bed. Laundry had sucked before the bombs fell, and it was even more of a pain in the ass now. Shit’d keep another day. “I’m gettin’ food. Gonna check on Dep.”

“Oh, okay—uh, good luck, man.” Hurk looked at the floor, chewing at his lip guiltily. “I should…probably sit in with ‘em pretty soon here, too, I guess. I dunno. I mean—d’you think it’s all that helpful, really?”

Hurk was a great guy—he loved his cousin to death and everything—but supporting the convalescence of folks he cared about was not one of his strong suits. Just like when his dad’d spent a month in the hospital up in Missoula for that liver shit. Hurk was probably the only one who even liked the guy, but soon as he got word his old man was going under the knife, he left on another one of his international soul searching journeys or whatever, and refused to even acknowledge the whole mess when he came back. Whenever someone tried to talk to him about it, he’d launch into a long-winded story about saving some far-off king from mutant crocodiles and being thanked with a week-long banquet-slash-orgy-slash-righteous-smoke-sesh, after which he was awarded a sweet medallion (which, sadly, he was forced to trade at some other point in his globe-trotting escapades, but that’s another story) and honorary title of His Most Supreme Badassness. In a firefight or in a scrape there’d be almost no one Sharky’d rather have in his corner, but when dealing with protracted sad shit? All Hurk’s worldly experience didn’t add up to squat.

“No worries if you’re not up to it, man,” he said, looking at the door so his cousin wouldn’t feel too embarrassed. “I dunno how much is getting through right now.”

“You’re probably right.” Hurk said quickly, relief palpable. “I-I mean, Cassidy wanted my help leadin’ the foraging team today anyhow, so probably couldn’t fit it into my schedule. Later, though.”

“For sure.”

He waved goodbye and left their cabin, following the warm, gentle smell of oatmeal to the cook hub. Folks were already lined up, accepting ladlefuls of steaming gruel from Casey and joining another series of lines for fruit or eggs. What kind of eggs was anybody’s guess—more likely to be duck or turkey or pheasant than your classic chicken, but protein was protein and the camp took anything the foraging teams brought back. They’d had a pair of grouse that had produced six or seven chicks in the spring, promising to provide a steady and renewable source of food right up until a wolverine had wandered into camp (before they’d finished the perimeter fencing) and showed everyone it was the best there was at what it did, and what it did was murderizing grouse. People had been trying to catch another breeding pair of fowl for a while now, but no luck yet.

He took a tray from the dishware station, taking two bowls and a plate for good measure. Some folks liked to mix all this breakfast shit together, but he wasn’t a fan and he wanted Rook to have as much choice as he could possibly give them. Most of the good spoons had already been taken, but he picked through the box until he found a metal one. Last time he tried using a wooden spoon he’d gotten a splinter in his fucking tongue, so until these amateur whittling hipster motherfuckers got their shit together, he was only trusting pre-Collapse cutlery, thank you very much.

“Two portions of your finest slop, if you please, Case,” he said when he reached the front of the line.

Casey grunted, ladling without ceremony, the oatmeal landing in the bowls with a distinctly unappetizing splat. “Bon appetit, Boshaw. Remember to rinse out what you don’t eat this time—leave it ten minutes and this crap sets up harder’n I’ve gotten for years.”

He grinned and winked. “My condolences, dude. See if I can’t find you any new mags next time I’m out.”

Casey turned to the next person in line, closing his eyes and muttering a beleaguered “Please don’t.”

The helping of eggs at the next station was pretty small—must’ve been a low haul—but there was plenty of fruit. Prosperity was well situated in that regard—blackberry bushes grew down the hill along the river, and wild strawberries were everywhere in summer. Most of Red’s apple orchard hadn’t made it through the fallout, but the few trees that had were pretty reliable producers. And those weird mutant things that tasted like a cross between mango and plums were spreading rapidly through the surrounding forest. Oh, had Rook even had those before?

He asked the yawning attendant at the fruit station for extra, and stared down at the bright orange chunks as he walked to the recovery cabin. 

They’d like it, right? He remembered them liking fruit, but sometimes it was hard to keep track of what he actually remembered them saying or doing and what he’d just imagined in one of countless pathetic fantasies he’d had in the space between awake and dreaming. Conversations about movies, food, music—jokes he’d been thinking up that day but didn’t have ready at the right time, stories he hadn’t told them yet, confessions and questions buzzing around his skull and piling up behind his tongue, waiting their turn for an imaginary heart-to-heart. He’d run through some so many times, complete with his best guesses for Dep’s reactions and responses, that in his head some of them had gradually been reclassified as actual memories.

What if that was the case for most of what he remembered? He’d been…really fucking lonely at the time. The kind of lonely that physically ached, that pulled gravity down harder around your neck and shoulders and made every tired heartbeat despicable. And then suddenly there was someone who wanted him around. Who wanted his opinion and didn’t call him stupid or make fun of the crap constantly dropping out of his mouth. Wasn’t out of the question that he’d latched onto that small kindness and embellished everything over time. What if he’d never really been all that close to them? What if he’d only ever loved the idea of them, a version he’d built up over years in his head that had never even existed, much less loved him back? 

Which would be worse? If Dep never returned to the person they were, or if they did and they weren’t the friend he remembered?

His boot stubbed up against a rock and he stumbled, catching himself without dropping the tray, scowling as guilt and shame flooded his cheeks with heat. Stupid—selfish. Of course recovery was the best possible outcome for them, regardless of what that meant for the sanctity of his dumb memories. It wasn’t about him, and it shouldn’t be—it was about them. Period, case closed, end of story.

Sure would be nice if they liked him when they came back, though.

His gut sank as the barred door got closer. The guard out front looked tired, watching his approach without real interest. 

Maybe it’d be dumb to hope twelve hours of care would undo eight years of trauma—no, yeah, that was definitely dumb. But if it hadn’t made any difference at all, what good was it to keep opening up old wounds? Maybe they just needed rest right now, not the spectres of old friends flitting in and out of a dingy cabin that was just the latest in a series of prisons they’d been kept in.

Pretty fucking arrogant to think he could help them more than Grace or Nick or Jerome or any of the others who’d been there before the bombs fell. His blabbering wasn’t gentle enough or rational enough to coax them back to themself—for all he knew, his voice was just white noise to them as they rested. He’d almost cried last time, though—that couldn’t have been reassuring for them. What if he was just…stressing them out? Undoing whatever semblance of progress the others were making?

The odds were stacked against them high enough as it was—they didn’t need him bumble-fucking it up, and that’s what he did best. Ever since he was a kid. Before he could read he was taking appliances around the house apart, but could never put ‘em back together right. Saying the wrong thing too often and too loudly at family gatherings, making jokes that no one laughed at in school and feeling like he was shrinking, sinking deep in a vat of boiling tar. Granma sick and tired at the end, arms bruised from the treatments that weren’t working, and him burning her toast, dropping the soup can lid into the pot, slopping water over her front trying to get her to drink. None of his words were right when he moved in with his folks, none of them were good enough. Nothing he tried stopped them from fighting each other or kept their attention for long. And after the accident, he’d what? Dropped out of school, drove the trailer park business into the ground, and lost every decent job you could get in Hope County without a degree. And that shit was before jail.

He swallowed hard. The breakfast tray felt heavier than it should be, but hey, if he couldn’t do much else, at least he could bring them food, right? Maybe it was too early for anything else to matter.

“Hey, you alright?” The guard looked at him doubtfully. “That’s not for me, is it? ‘Cause I already ate.”

Their attention startled him out of the spiral.

“Uh—nah, man, for them. How’s it goin’?” He nodded toward the door. “Anyone in there with ‘em already?”

“Nah. Tracy was in there earlier, but she left for patrol ‘bout an hour ago. Been quiet.”

“Cool, cool.” He cleared his throat, looking at the sunbleached wood and steeling himself as the guard lifted the bar and edged inside. 

“You’re good, come on in,” they called, widening the gap so he could step through. 

He sidled past the door, braced for the smell of decay. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been yesterday, though—more like the cabin after a few days of him and Hurk skipping trips to the camp’s communal showers, before it got so rank they both caved. Bath must’ve helped. He hoped being clean made them feel a little better, too. 

They looked okay, at least. Better than last night. Wasn’t exactly a high bar, but seeing them like this—dressed in clean clothes and curled up sleeping on their cot, hair buzzed even and close to their skull, thick gauze wound around their wrists and thumbs, their skin cleared of grime—was reassuring enough to close his throat.

“My shift’s up in a bit. If you’re wanting to stay awhile, I’ll just let my relief know you’re in here.”

The guard waited for him to nod before closing the door behind them, and he heard the bar settle back into place. 

Sharky put the tray down next to their cot, sitting crosslegged and pulling his bowl into his lap. They didn’t stir. Last night must’ve taken a lot out of them—they’d never been a heavy sleeper. Or maybe a part of them just knew the kind of shitty breakfast they’d have to wake up to, and was trying to prolong the inevitable. 

He brought the bowl to his lips and tipped it back, trying to get the thick sludge to the back of his throat without having to taste it. At least it was still warm. It lost the little sweetness it had when it got cold, which just left it tasting like wood shavings coated in old lady soap. He made himself chug a third of the bowl before putting it down and rewarding himself with a berry. Ugh that glop would be stuck in his teeth all day. He grimaced, poking at the scrambled eggs without enthusiasm. He usually skipped breakfast on oatmeal days.

Their breathing was soft and steady, but they sounded congested. Were they sick? Or was that just the result of a broken nose healed wrong?

Probably shouldn’t watch them sleep. That’s creepy, right? 

He scooped up some eggs and looked around the cabin, squinting at the papers lining the walls. The light was getting better, and he could recognize some of the products on the scattered ads. There were some for travel agencies too—resorts and shit. Bright logos scrawled across tropical island vistas, the languid rust-red curls of the Grand Canyon, massive white cruise ships drifting through glaciers. Places he’d never been and probably would never get to visit now.

There was a weird, distant feeling in his chest, but it didn’t last long. Even if the bombs hadn’t dropped, he probably wouldn’t have ever gone to most of those places, anyway. And fuck, a wasteland roadtrip wasn’t a total impossibility. 

Hey Dep, wanna go to Florida with me? He barely caught the thought before saying it aloud, turning to grin at them over his shoulder. 

They were staring back at him.

“Shit!” He jumped and laughed self-consciously. “That’s spooky as hell, man. Sorry. Since you’re up, though…you hungry?”

He held up their bowl of oatmeal, angling it so they could see the contents better.

“Uh…I’m not gonna lie—it tastes like ass. But we got fruit and eggs and stuff too, so once you get this down, it’s all good.”

They didn’t move to take it, but they were looking. And they didn’t seem to mind him sitting so close. Emboldened by that, he set the bowl down on the edge of their cot and offered them the spoon. Their eyes flicked down to the thick bandaging around their hands, and he winced.

“Oh yeah—uh, sorry. Fine motor shit probably is a no-go right now, huh? Um. Can I—?” He took a small spoonful and held it up, slowly reaching over until it was about a foot away from their face. They frowned slightly, but after a moment they leaned forward to take a taste. They recoiled, with a grimace so disgusted that he had to laugh.

They flinched at the unexpected noise, but quickly dropped their defensive posture, staring for a moment. They were frowning slightly, but more out of irritation than fear or serious offense, and when he quieted down the expression smoothed out into something he thought was bemused resignation. He’d take that over pissed or scared, any day.

He grinned, loading up the spoon again. “Dude, I’m with you. One hundred percent. Honestly it’s like, right up there with steamed green beans as the most joyless shit I have ever eaten. It fills you up, though. Get a few solid bites down and then we’ll have some fruit, yeah?” 

They let out a quick, peevish huff, but when he brought the spoon back up, they didn’t hesitate to take the bite. They didn’t really chew, just sort of processed it for a minute and swallowed. He fed them another bite. Then another. And another. Again. The expression melted away from their face, but they kept eating so he kept feeding them. The spoon scraped dully against the bowl and they bobbed forward mechanically, staring past him to the corner of the room. His hand wobbled and their teeth scraped on the spoon, a blob of oatmeal spilling down their chin. 

“Shit, my bad.” Sharky winced, wanting to help but not sure if he should use the spoon or his hand or let them do it themself. Didn’t think to bring napkins—did Casey’s people even put napkins out? He’d sure never fucking used them. They didn’t move to wipe away the goop, but were still rocking forward and back steadily, still staring at the corner. He turned, trying to track their gaze, but there wasn’t anything special there as far as he could see.

“Uh, all good, Dep?” he asked cautiously. What was going on? They had been emoting just moments before, as communicative as he could expect in their condition, but this was like they’d vanished, operating on autopilot.

They were breathing kind of hard.

He put the spoon down, and set the bowl back on the tray.

“How ‘bout some fruit? We got berries and this new kind of thing that I think you’re gonna like.” A quick glance confirmed they were still sitting slumped and staring at the corner. He fought a stab of irritation. Had they even made any progress at all, or had he just been misinterpreting things?

He picked up a blackberry and thrust it out to them, close enough to feel their breath on his knuckles, pushing even closer when they didn’t respond. They lunged forward, biting his thumb hard before he wrenched his hand away and scrambled back, kicking over one of the bowls in his panic.

“Ow, Dep—the fuck?!” 

When it was clear they weren’t following up their attack, he checked his hand. Didn’t break skin, but it hurt like a sonovabitch, and the pale pressure divets left by their teeth were taking a while to fill back in. He glared at them as he tried to rub it back to normalcy, eyes stinging. 

“Dick. ‘M trying to help you out here, and you go full zombie on me?”

They blinked down at their lap, where the berry he’d dropped had fallen. With difficulty, they picked it up between their index and middle finger and put it in their mouth. They chewed for a moment, swallowed, and looked at him guiltily. Then at the fruit left on the plate.

He snorted, sitting back down. Just… further away than last time. “Well, fine. Long as you’re at least a little bit sorry. Guess I was kinda…up in your personal space, there. But you gotta eat the rest of your fucking oatmeal.”

Maybe they resented being fed like a baby. Wasn’t like he had a lot of options, though, not with their hands mostly out of commission. How’d they get food in the bunker bein’ cuffed all the time, anyway?

Oh. OH. 

He swallowed the hot guilt rising in his throat and shoved the tray towards them, gesturing vaguely. “Forget the oatmeal. Eat what you want. I’ll just…be here if you want help, okay?”

They pulled the tray closer to their side and picked at the fruit and eggs, mostly successful in keeping their bandaging clean. 

“Do you…want to be alone?” he asked hesitantly, probably not as bothered as he should be by the wet, sloppy sounds as they slurped chunks of scrambled eggs from between their fingers. “I thought—I mean, I get it. If you need to like, process shit by yourself, if that’s what you prefer.”

They slowed, head turned slightly. Not looking at him, not quite, but in his direction. They bent back to the plate, picking a fat, dark berry. He thought they’d just pop it in their mouth, but instead they leaned towards him, dropping it clumsily on his knee.

“Oh. Cool. Thank you.” He grinned, accepting the gift and relaxing. That meant they wanted him here, right? Fine, cool—that’s a good sign! A good sign. Okay. His thumb didn’t even hurt that much anymore, even. He started cleaning the oatmeal he’d spilled before, gathering stray clumps and returning them to his bowl. Probably wouldn’t have finished it anyway.

They let out a low, pleased hum, and when he looked up they were struggling to chew a particularly large chunk of the mutant fruit.

“Hell yeah, man, I knew you’d like that shit!” He checked himself from slapping their leg excitedly, thumping the dirt-packed floor instead. “I dunno what we’re calling ‘em yet. Folks mostly just say, like, ‘gonna go pick more of those orange thingies’ or ‘have another mutie fruit’ or whatever, but I was thinking, let’s workshop something better, right? Somethin’ catchier. Maybe we could come up with, like, one of them Poor Man Cho things. Like how, uh, how a tangerine and an orange is a tangelo? And I think—yeah, a cross between an apricot and a plum is a pluot. Something like that.”

They grunted with what he thought sounded like approval.

“M’kay, so. What the fuck are they?” He lay back on his side, propped up by one elbow, legs stretched out towards them. “I feel like they’re pretty similar to, uh, maybe mangoes? But that shit has never grown here before, and I have no fucking clue how seeds could’ve spread since the end of the world and everything. Uh, naked peaches are nectarines, yeah? But that’s pretty awkward. Nectango? Mangarine. Heh. See, that just don’t sound right. Doesn’t flow. Man, we should loop Hurk in on this—he’s better with, uh, the whole branding thing.”

They slid the tray towards him, only a few chunks of fruit left on the plate. He took one, but passed the rest back.

“You go ahead an’ finish it, man. I don’t eat much in the mornings,” he mumbled around the mouthful, feeling juice trickle through his beard. He wiped his mouth on the back of one hand.

They polished the rest off quickly, sucking their fingers clean and brushing them off on their new shirt.

“So. You, uh, you feeling okay?” 

Boy, that was a stupid question, but he needed to know, and they seemed a hundred times more lucid or communicative or both than they had last night.

They looked at him, brow furrowed, shook their head a little and shrugged their shoulders.

“I mean, I guess that’s better than a straight-up ‘no’.” He cocked his head. “Anything I can do to help? Like is there something you want that I could get you, or d’you need me to get the doc to take another look atcha?”

They shook their head vehemently, curling up defensively. 

“So like, existential shit. One hundred percent understandable, ‘miga. Uh, lessee…” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the skylight. Lighter than baby blue, but there’d probably be clouds blowing in later this afternoon. “I dunno how to get you through…whatever you’re getting through. Wish I did, but bein’ real, that’s way outta my league. But where I really shine? That’s party planning, my dude, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

He lifted himself just enough to peek over at them, offering a grin. They were watchful, but more curious than suspicious. He lay back again, watching the morning sky grow bluer.

“You liked that new fruit, right? I’ll show you where it grows when you’re ready to get outta here. There’s glades of ‘em nearby—big gnarly trees, waxy leaves. Kinda pretty, and the roots go deep pretty quick so you can just stretch out on the soft, shady grass under ‘em and chill. Uh, provided a mutant wolverine or some shit doesn’t try an’ eat you. But if you want, we can go in a group. Some of us keeping watch, some of us just hangin’ with you. Real lowkey. I mean, I’m assuming you won’t be up to a real party for a while.”

Not like they used to, that’s for sure. He had a few hazy memories of the nights at the 8-Bit when they were too tired of planning or were waiting out an injury, tracking down the bar’s remaining stock and going to town. Music if anyone had a working player, impromptu karaoke if nobody did. Dancing if they weren’t too wounded or too drunk yet, cards and darts and pool and stupid sleepover games until everyone almost forgot about the war around them. He’d loved those nights at the time, reveled at the electric, desperate camaraderie filling the humid air. He’d loved how they’d laugh and grab his shoulder to steady him when they bumped into each other, as if it had just been an accident. 

Well, maybe it had. For all their scary ninja moves takin’ out Peggie patrols and routing outposts, they couldn’t dance for shit. He’d offered to show them a few things, but they kept asking about stuff he didn’t know—seriously, who casually tangos? And they’d gotten all red and defensive when he teased them about it, so he didn’t push further. 

Anyway, point was that in retrospect, all that stuff seemed kinda…sad. Like maybe they hadn’t actually been having a good time and it was just a really effective distraction from how scary shit was getting outside.

But the worst was over now, right? Had to be. He folded his arm more comfortably back behind his neck and sighed up at the blue square of sky behind the glass. 

They were in the process of building a relatively comfortable life for themselves here at what Kim and Jerome and everybody insisted on calling ‘Prosperity’ in hopes that it’d bring better luck than the previous occupant had found. Now, Sharky wasn’t one to knock superstition—prayers, karma, lucky numbers, vibes, whatever you wanted to call it, you couldn’t deny the world chugged along in some ways that were hard to explain. Still, though, it was hard to believe something as simple as a name change could erase John Seed’s rancid energy from the place. Even now, with Kim’s reclaimed fairy lights taking place of the musty taxidermy in the great hall and the spacious kitchen filled with garlands of dried herbs and hand-blown jars of imported spices retrofitted to serve as Dr. Lindsey’s medic station, the airstrip fenced in and staked out into parcels for corn, potatoes, tomatoes, wheat and zucchini, there were days Sharky found himself expecting to come ‘round a corner and see him in his long coat, arms folded and a petulant scowl on his bearded face.

Expected. Hoped? Just expected. Maybe, maybe “hoped”… at least a little bit. Guilt was a hard thing to figure out, especially these days, when the immediate horror of what the Seeds had been doing was years removed and had been concluded by the nuclear catastrophe they had claimed would justify them.

Well, technically the immediate horrors of what John, Jacob, and the most recent Faith were doing had ended earlier, and apparently Joseph’s horrors had lasted longer, down wherever he’d kept the Deputy for all those years, but the bombs falling had proven to be the cleanest divide between “before” and “after” in his memories, and it had been that fixture through which he’d become used to filtering his occasional reflections. 

John, Jacob, Faith, were all imprisoned on the other side of that divide, staring hungrily after Rook, who had made the jump across. What if they followed? Dep had said they were dead, but he hadn’t actually seen the bodies. Maybe they weren’t the only ghost of “before” to be granted resurrection. And if he did look up one day and see John, would he see the desperate psychopath in his memories, or would he be a different man? Would the tenuous peace the people of Prosperity had held with a Joseph seemingly committed to noninterference be extended to the siblings that had so enthusiastically carried out his orders before? Would they themselves be content to stay in New Eden’s cozy little compound and live out the remainder of their lives without going back to war? 

Would they have taken part in the deconstruction of the Deputy? They’d arguably done worse to far more, but from what Sharky could tell from the radio conversations he’d overheard and the detailed recountings Rook had given of their various captive experiences, the Seed siblings had given them special treatment. Coaxing where they threatened with others, giving second and third chances before it was too late. Affection, or something close enough to it for the distinction not to matter. If John or Faith or even Jacob had been sheltered from the radiation with Rook and Joseph, he didn’t think they would have been on board with Joseph’s particular brand of care. But then again, how much of Joseph’s cruelty had been in the self-righteous narcissism of revenge that wouldn’t have felt necessary with even one of his inner Family left alive?

He wanted to ask Rook if they ever thought about them, but that question could wait until they were ready for it. As far as he was concerned, they hadn’t done anything wrong, under the circumstances. Rook had seen lives in need of saving, pain and cruelty that needed to be stopped, and they’d done their best to do it. He didn’t have any regrets either—like, a guy claiming to get visions from God and spearheading a cult of people getting amped for the end of the world was hardly a credible warning, and the members of the Project had been overzealous in their mission to bring Hope County to heel. Maybe the Seeds would have actually saved more lives if they’d just kept to themselves until the bombs fell, and then took in whoever wanted to take shelter in one of their fancy bunkers during those scant hours everyone’d had to get underground. No Bliss zombies, no flayings, no Manchurian survivalists. Maybe then John Seed would still be around to see what became of his hillside lodge.

His leg tickled—a feather-light touch at his shin. Cautious, gentle. He swallowed and resisted the urge to look. Should he talk? They hadn’t tried to touch him when he was talking before. Maybe they just needed the quiet to really adjust to the presence of another person. 

Tracy would’ve been good for that. She didn’t talk much to anybody but Jess, and even then they usually fucked off by themselves, either to their own little cabin in the far corner of the compound or vanishing off into the woods for hours, always coming back with a kill or a bagful of forage so the older folks wouldn’t ask many questions. Not that they would—hell, Grace and Mary May watched the sun set from the ramparts together every night, hands loosely clasped as if by accident. Jess and Tracy were just private. For their own reasons, but Sharky had a hunch about one or two of them. Back in the day Dep had found some letters…well, between Faith being Tracy’s ex-turned-enchantress-slash-drug-kingpin-slash-zombie-commander and Jess’s absurdly fucked up family trauma, they had plenty of shit to help each other untangle.

He wondered what Tracy had done here earlier. Had she just stood vigil after Rook as they slept? Or did she have her own conversations left to finish? Maybe she just had to see for herself to believe it was real. He’d get that.

Their fingers slid around his ankle, and he shivered at the tickle, laughing self-consciously and hauling himself up.

“Hey, uh, dunno if we’ve had that talk, Dep, but I’m not into feet stuff. Not a dealbreaker or nothin’, it’s just not my thing.”

They snatched their hand back, but stayed close, looking him full in the face with neither fear nor recognition. Well…baby steps were better than nothing.

He cleared his throat, holding his hand palm up between them. Not reaching, just…out there. After a moment they took it, tracing his fingers and the scars stippling the back of his hand.

“So. D’you…remember your name?”

They scowled at him, and nodded.

“Yo, that’s good!” He grinned encouragingly. “You seemed real, uh…bad last night. Wasn’t sure…well, whatever. Doesn’t matter. We’re gonna focus on the good. Do you remember me?” 

They curled his fingers into a fist and dropped it, shaking their head and shuffling back on their cot, not looking at him.

“Hey, that’s fine—it’s not a big deal.” He cleared his throat, trying not to sound hurt. “Bet lots of stuff’ll be comin’ back soon. I only knew you for, like..a couple months, anyway, and there was a lot of other shit going on. So like, don’t feel bad, ‘kay? It’s just good to see you, is all.”

They didn’t turn to look at him, but the hunch of their shoulders eased.

He felt wobbly, but he needed to move, hands itching until he put them to work gathering the breakfast dishes. “Um. I got chores I need to get to, and it seemed like that rest was doin’ you good. Can I get you anything? Still hungry?”

They turned, miming drinking, dark eyes skating guiltily away from him towards the door, and he nodded.

“Water, cool. Can do. Uh—quick question before I go, actually: d’you, by any chance, know sign language?” He felt like he should demonstrate, but he wasn’t sure any of the gestures he knew were technically part of the language, so he just ended up flopping a hand vaguely.

They snorted, but shook their head, and he nodded to himself again, balancing the tray and knocking against the door with the heel of his boot.

“Thought so. Me neither, obviously. Uh… bye.” 

The guard outside opened the door and he backed out into the sunlight, watching them watch him go. The door closed, the bar settled with a heavy thud, and he looked down at the bowls of crusted oatmeal and groaned. Casey was gonna put him on scrub duty for this.

He hated scrub duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this idea/setting and I'll keep working on it, but I can't promise any kind of update frequency or much of a satisfying overarching narrative. Life, am I right? Whoever actually reads this, hope you're safe and doing well.

**Author's Note:**

> Dep's voice/noises in New Dawn make me think they'd sustained some major hard palate injury along with the loss of their tongue. I don't think they have the presence of mind in-game to be voluntarily mute, and I sure as shit don't buy them "converting". 
> 
> Since they didn't include Sharky in the final fight in 5, it was always a headcanon of mine that he'd been holed up in his own bunker already when the bombs dropped, and had to stay there alone until it was safe to look for other survivors. 
> 
> Also I know the disaster with the train before the Highwaymen moved in had basically put the nail in the coffin re: a collective community in New Dawn's canon, but I hated to think that after everything everyone went through in 5, they'd all just scatter to the wind. 
> 
> If you want explanations for anything else implied here or just want to rant about New Dawn as a direct continuation of 5, holler at me! Always happy to talk. :)


End file.
